The Path to the Sea

by Liz Fenwick

  The door to her room is ajar and to my surprise she is asleep, with a pencil in hand. The diary has slipped to the floor. I pull the pencil out of her hand then tuck the blanket around her. Her dark eyelashes rest on her cheeks and my heart turns over with love. It never ceases to shock me how much I love her. Maybe I have lost the other babies because I can only love one child.

  Picking up the diary, I resist the urge to take more than a quick glance at it. I would not spy on my own daughter. True to her word, she has begun writing in the back. She has underlined private and put it in bold capitals. I close the journal and place it on the bedside table. Private it will be, but I love that she has begun her first entry, Dear Diary.

  I lean down and kiss her forehead. The scent of raspberry lingers on her skin. Her rosebud mouth is stained from the berries she ate earlier and there is a tell-tale crumb of scone in the collar of her nightgown. She must have slipped down unnoticed, after all. She is such a dear thing and I never thought I would feel such love. Life is funny that way. I never wanted her and now I can’t imagine my life without her . . . or Allan. Below the open window I hear him chatting and smile. All will be fine. After each miscarriage he has mourned differently than I have. That’s normal. Grief is different for everyone. But we do need to have a discussion about trying for any more. It takes so much out of us each time and of course, Diana. She feels it. I sometimes think she feels guilty. That she feels she is not enough, which isn’t true. She is everything and more. How do I explain this to a child? Looking at her once more I slip out of her room, hoping that tonight won’t be too late. I stifle a yawn.

  Down in the dining room, I pour myself a small amount of cognac to settle my stomach and run my fingers over the spines of the books that line the wall until I reach the doors to the garden. No opportunity has yet presented itself for me to grab a moment with Tom. Outside, the sound of the waves competes with the conversation. During my life I have heard it through the good and bad, the calm and the stormy. A house this close to the sea is constantly aware of its position, proud above the beach, gleaming white. Even on this night of a waning crescent moon, the house glows. If I were on a boat in the bay, I would be able to see it without the lights. It makes its presence felt. At one point during the war the front of the house was coated in cow dung to dim the white and that seemed to work. But tonight the paint is bright and it shines.

  On the path across the lawn, Tom is talking with Eddie. He glances my way and then sets off down towards the beach alone. There is no way I can follow him at this point. My duty is to my guests. I won’t be free until the last one has departed or gone to bed.

  Mrs Hoskine stands in the French windows of the smoking room. I nod at her and she heads off without a word. I don’t know what I’d do without her. Boskenna wouldn’t work, that is certain. Between her and her husband they kept it warm, dry and welcoming. When we arrived a week ago, I could have wept I was so exhausted. But thanks to the Hoskines, here everything is easy, not like the challenge of life in Moscow where nothing is as it seems. There I am on constant alert, and this weekend it feels like Moscow has crept into Boskenna while I wasn’t watching. But, of course, that isn’t true, I invited it in.

  At the time it seemed the only way, but right at this moment I simply want to be a family on holiday, entertaining friends. I want to hold my husband and watch him sleep, peacefully, and I want to build sandcastles and make jam with my daughter. I don’t want to be anything other than a mother and a wife. I laugh. Who would have thought that I could feel this way? Certainly not me.

  ‘Darling Joan, thank you for such a lovely evening. The food and the company were divine.’ William Parsons grins.

  ‘A pleasure.’ I smile.

  ‘So like the evenings your mother used to run here.’ He paused. ‘I didn’t think anyone could live up to her standard but of course her daughter can.’

  ‘High praise.’

  He clasps my hand briefly. ‘We’re off now. Hope to see you in London when you are next back or maybe if you spend Christmas here this year.’

  ‘That would be lovely. So kind of you to join us tonight.’

  I watch them stop by Allan. I can’t hear the words, but Allan glances up at me and smiles. My stomach flutters. Maybe we can get through this, after all.

  21

  Lottie

  3 August 2018, 11.35 p.m.

  The house was in darkness as Lottie climbed the stairs to her room feeling a bit drunk. The brandy she’d thought would make her sleepy hadn’t done so. Her mind felt fuzzy, not tired. It had been a bad idea. But she was good at those. Spending any more time with Alex Hoskine would fall into that category. He’d lost none of his appeal. She shook her head and walked to the bathroom to fill her water glass. But she stopped before she reached it. Sitting cross legged on the hallway floor was her mother. The closet door beside her was open and she had an old shoebox on her lap. By the light of her phone torch she was going through photographs.

  ‘Mum?’ Lottie knelt down beside her.

  ‘I don’t remember any of this.’ She held up a picture of her in Red Square with a man Lottie guessed was her grandmother’s first husband. Her mother’s hand shook. ‘I only have the one picture of my father.’

  ‘The memory you told me about.’ Thinking of the diary, Lottie was grateful it seemed her mother didn’t recall everything.

  She nodded, and Lottie took the photo from her. There was not enough light to see things in great detail, but her grandfather, Allan Trewin, was a handsome man. His charisma radiated from the faded snapshot. ‘You never showed me that picture.’

  ‘No point. But now I’m faced with all these new photos.’ She dug into the box and pulled out another one with her father sharing a camel with her.

  ‘How did you find these?’ Lottie peered into the darkness of the closet.

  ‘I went to go to bed and found I had no sheets or pillowcases.’

  Lottie frowned. ‘They aren’t kept here.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  Of course she didn’t. She hadn’t even stayed overnight that terrible evening ten years ago. She had stood by the bedroom door while Lottie packed her things. Once they were in the car the silence had been the worst. If she had shouted it would have been better. That silence was so damning. Here was a woman who made her living with words and yet she had had none for Lottie.

  Taking her phone out of her pocket now, Lottie pointed its torch into the darkness. The closet was filled with garment bags and boxes. She’d never known this closet to be unlocked. She unzipped one of the bags and glimpsed the shimmer of green silk.

  ‘Looks like it’s all Gran’s old clothes.’ She ran her fingers over the fabric.

  ‘She’s hidden all this from me . . .’ Her mother’s voice faded.

  ‘I wouldn’t say “hidden”.’ Lottie opened a box to find a pair of black pumps with a grosgrain ribbon bow. They were in beautiful condition.

  Her mother stroked a black and white photograph. ‘All this time I thought there were no other photos.’

  ‘Did you ever ask?’

  ‘She said she didn’t know where they were.’ She sighed.

  ‘Well, then don’t make a judgement.’ Lottie winced. She shouldn’t have said that. That was the brandy talking.

  Her mother stood, taking the box of photos with her. She glared at Lottie then headed not towards her bedroom but her mother’s.

  ‘Mum, where are you going?’

  ‘To ask about these.’ She looked mutinous.

  ‘It’s nearly midnight and I hope both of them are asleep.’ Lottie paused and took a deep breath, thinking maybe the gins had taken away her mother’s normal sense. ‘Tomorrow morning will be soon enough to ask these questions.’

  She stopped and turned. ‘She may not be alive tomorrow.’

  Lottie couldn’t argue with that, but she had to stop her. ‘Then maybe you shouldn’t ask.’

  ‘I need to know the truth.’ She rested the box on her hip.
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  ‘The truth about what?’

  ‘My father.’

  Lottie let out a long sigh. ‘Mum, you know the truth: he fell from the cliff.’ She flinched. The tragedy that two people connected with Boskenna had fallen to their death was still too close after her walk this evening and the coming anniversary of John’s death.

  ‘Yes, I’ve read the newspapers and the coroner’s report.’

  ‘Then what are you looking for?’ Lottie hoped she was right that her mother had no memory of what she’d written in her diary.

  ‘I wish I knew.’ She walked towards her and Lottie dared to hope she would leave talking to Gran until tomorrow. As her mother passed, Lottie grabbed her hand. ‘I know this is hard.’

  She shook her head and went to her room, but Lottie was sure she’d seen tears pooling in her mother’s eyes. Yet again she’d said the wrong thing to her. Walking down the hall to the linen cupboard, she pulled out towels then sheets for her mother’s bed and for her own.

  Passing the closet where the clothes and photos had been found, Lottie pushed it closed with her foot. As she expected, the door to her mother’s room was shut. She tapped lightly and said, ‘I’ll leave the sheets for your bed here, and some towels.’ There was no response from within, so she placed them on the floor and went back to collect the ones for her room. But her way was blocked by the now wide-open closet door. No doubt this was why it had been locked in the past. It wouldn’t stay shut.

  Lottie tried to close it again to no avail. Looking closely, one of the shoeboxes had moved forward. She pushed them back, but it didn’t work. Groping in the darkness, she found the culprit. One of the lids wouldn’t sit on its box. She pulled it to the front and found not shoes in it, but a bulging notebook filled with bits of old newspaper, from what little she could see. Closing the door, she kept the shoebox and the notebook and walked to her room.

  Turning on the bedside light, she sat on the top of her bed and opened the notebook. A yellowed page from The Daily Telegraph with a recipe for ‘Chicken à la King’ stared at her. Her grandmother was an excellent cook and hostess. The best in the Duchy, according to Gramps. Not that they had done much entertaining recently. A wave of sadness arrived with the thought that there would be no more entertaining for Gran.

  On the first page Gran had written Damascus, Syria and the date, 30 September 1955, the menu and the guest list. On the flipside she had jotted down things like need more salt in the sauce and Mrs Phelps didn’t eat the fish.

  Lottie kept turning the pages. It was amazing in the detail. Her grandmother had noted down whose parties she’d been to and what they served. Her thought process began to emerge. There was even a list of guests with food dislikes and drink preferences.

  Lottie’s stomach rumbled. Tonight’s dinner of chilli con carne didn’t stand up to beef wellington and salmon en croute. She loved Gran’s little comments about seating plans gone awry and who had bored her silly at ‘away matches’. She even noted what dresses and jewellery she wore to each event. It must have been hard to have that much pressure to look fabulous and to keep the dinner parties fresh. It was clear she’d made sure that no one had been served the same meal twice. Well, that wasn’t quite true. The French ambassador clearly enjoyed her lemon soufflé, so whenever he was invited, she served it and he was always seated beside her. Lottie concluded he was either a very difficult guest or an easy one.

  Yawning, she placed the notebook back into its box on the floor. Her head was spinning just having read the entries for September to December 1954. Her mother had been born in late December; how did Gran do all of this while pregnant? Before she married Allan, Lottie knew she had been a secretary at the embassy. She must have transferred her organisational skills to being a good hostess. Maybe it had been a way to combat the boredom. No, that was making a judgement on what she thought life as a Fifties’ housewife must have been like. It had to have been challenging to source everything and make it all appear easy so far from home. But of course she would have had help. It would be the last thing on earth Lottie would want. Even if things had worked out as planned with Paul, cosy domesticity would never have been on the menu. Her career as a designer was paramount – or had been. Life could change very quickly if you trusted the wrong person.

  22

  Diana

  3 August 2018, 11.55 p.m.

  She stood staring out of the windows in her grandmother’s old room at the north end of the house. Due to the darkness Diana saw a reflection of herself on the glass. Tall and lean. There was nothing comforting about her appearance. The lights from the tanker in the bay added highlights to her greying hair. The image was framed by the old chintz curtains.

  Behind her, the bed was covered in faded photos. It told a story. Turning around she could see it. It was clear. A happy family. Love shouted from each smile, no matter the angle. Her hands shook as she picked up a picture of her as a toddler. Her father’s arms were open wide, and she had a proud smile on her face. She sighed. This wasn’t a memory she could have had. She was too young. But those first steps had been well documented. Turning the pictures over, her mother had carefully written London, 1957.

  Her chest tightened. She’d missed Lottie’s first steps because she’d been called out to Bosnia, so her daughter had toddled into George’s arms here on Boskenna’s lawn. Somewhere there was a photo. She should be grateful and she was. Looking at these pictures, maybe leaving Lottie with her mother had been the right thing. At the time it had been the only thing. No, she was lying to herself. She had run from her daughter, who had been like a puppy – big eyes and unconditional love. She had never asked for that love. She had never asked for the child, but by the time she’d discovered the pregnancy, fate had decided she would have it. She was thirty-six and a public figure thanks to her job. Being held hostage in Afghanistan for six months in 1989 had just added to her fame.

  She closed her eyes. Unlike her childhood, Diana could remember every detail of those six months, no matter how she pushed it away. Of course, that was part of the problem with Lottie. There in her exotic eyes were her father’s. No matter how she had tried, she couldn’t separate her daughter’s eyes from his. Each glance broke her. And yet she hadn’t given her up. She should have but they had eventually found a way. It hadn’t been perfect, but Lottie had never wanted for anything . . . except her love. That was why she knew she never should have become a mother. She couldn’t love a child enough but looking at these pictures, Diana was wrong about the reason. She had been loved and she had loved in return.

  On her most recent assignment, she’d met a young woman who had been searching for who she was. She had lost everything except – as she had phrased it – her bones, her essence that she carried inside her. She’d said it called out to her in the night, but she couldn’t translate what it was trying to say to her. She had no home. She was far from the land she was born in and she was alone. Diana’s heart reached out. It understood. She too had been alone, fearing everything had been lost.

  Her words had opened up Diana’s own history inside her. After decades of being silenced, it shouted to her. For years she’d believed that the past was just that and had no impact on the present she was living. Diana knew why she operated this way. She didn’t want to look back. She’d run from the past. Most people would run from what she’d seen in the course of her career, but it had called to her. She had covered her history so deeply with new images and memories that were richer, brighter and sadder so that she had squashed to oblivion what was underneath. Now, in the autumn of her life, she finally wanted to spring-clean and find out what she’d hidden.

  Why did she think things weren’t right with her father’s death? Something about it had always worried her. Only now was she willing to acknowledge she didn’t feel comfortable with the possibility that he chose to leave them? To leave her? Was that a pain too great to bear? It must have been.

  She knew his death had been recorded as accidental. But it didn’t ring tr
ue. Not to the man who had come to life in the process of her recent research. Allan Trewin was accomplished and brave. He had served in the RAF in the Pacific and – reading between the lines – he was in intelligence, which made sense of his later career in the Foreign Office. Her father had been a spy. This was not a surprise. It had been the Cold War and he had worked in the Soviet Union. It was simply an occupational hazard. But there was something else. She could almost feel the answer but it remained beyond her reach. Her mother might know more but Diana had left it too late to ask the questions, which was unlike her.

  MILESTONE

  23

  Joan

  4 August 1962, 3.00 a.m.

  All is quiet. Allan is finally asleep, and I creep through the house to Tom’s room. His door is ajar and, as I expect, he’s not in his bed. I have read his signal correctly. The tall clock in the hall chimes three. Silently in bare feet, I move down the stairs through the hall into the rear kitchen. The door is unlocked. My plimsoles sit waiting and I grab an old cardigan. The night has gone cold with the clear sky. The path through to the top garden is slippery with dew. Only the slight scent of pipe tobacco gives Tom away.

  I scramble across the part of the garden Diana calls Primrose Hill to the top path where I know I will find Tom. The crescent sliver of a moon is low in the sky. He’s dressed in dark colours blending into the hedge. I sit beside him, taking one last look around and listening to be sure we are alone. Only the cry of an owl fills the night air.

  ‘Hello.’ My voice is husky. It feels like a clandestine lovers’ meeting. I push the thought away.

  ‘I’d wondered if you’d make it.’ He taps his pipe on the seat.

  ‘Touch and go, but Allan finally fell asleep.’

  ‘Do you know what’s bothering him?’

  ‘You noticed too?’ I relax my shoulders. What was the saying . . . a problem shared is a problem halved? But that meant I thought he was a problem.